Oh, angel from the realms of glory

hovering above the stormy sepia sea

by the sleeping sepia city, little boxes stacked

like barnacles clinging to life on the rocks

of ages past, worthy of slight renaissance

your sepia radiance hidden like God's

sun when clouds linger cumulonimbus

with no celestial camera obscura needed

for the story told is ages old of carrying

the sepia hopes and bones of the broken

the daydreams of the downtrodden

higher and higher to light everlasting

until a seventeen sailed ship looks tiny

like a child's red toy boat floating on a pond or

a dusty wooden model never to rock gently

in the sepia bay between the sepia rocks

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